John Thurston

Work:

"Hello, you've reached the phone of John Thurston. Sorry I can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and contact number and I'll get right back to you."

Personal:

"HEY! It's John - can't take your call right now. Leave a message or send me a text, ok. I'm probably on a run or photographing something that needs silence. So leave a message... or keep calling. You'll get me eventually!"

Of course this is entirely his own fault, he thinks as he lies on the ground. Feeling slightly dizzy from where he banged his head on the concrete.

Typically a morning run (or evening, he’s not the strictest schedule keeper) is a solo activity. It’s time that he’s able to pop in his ear buds and run to either an up tempo backing tracking or disappear into an audiobook if reading time is limited. Either way, it’s an hour of time for him to spend solo in his otherwise ‘busy’ social life. After all Frida usually has two walks a day at a more puppy friendly pace to save her little legs from exhaustion.

Today was different though, today he’d been looking around the office where he’d soon be working. This involved a number of meetings that had taken more time than expected considering the other chores he’d gotten listed for today. He’d ended up rushing to the nearest furniture store around closing time as his kitchen chairs had finally arrived. Most time consuming had been his sister calling to complain about work and the work crush cancelling on drinks – sadly you couldn’t hurry Aggie through a call. Even if it was clear that Michelle was having a crisis with her mother, which was obviously why she cancelled.

So by the time he had the opportunity to take his evening run, Frida had been desperate for some attention and her own evening exercise. Judging by the pudge on her belly, maybe she needed more exercise… Stuffing a backpack with a couple of bottles of water, her water bowl and some treats, he’d started with a brisk walk. Checking that the pup was able to keep the pace, John had decided to break into a slight jog. Slowly upping the tempo until they’d finally reached a run.

That was where it was entirely his fault. At the moment his attention was taken by his phone ringing, Frida spotted an abandoned hotdog the edge of the boardwalk and he’d gone straight over her leash in an undignified tangle of limbs.  Spinning until he hit the ground with the back of his head and a muttered, “Fucking hell.”

For a moment, as the world spun, he worried he’d hurt Frida. Until she trotted over to lick at his face, smelling mildly of hot dog.

John glanced up at the sign, taking in the word pub and feeling instantly positive with the direction this evening was taking. It’d been a long day driving across the landscape of Maine. Rather than dedicate his evening to unpacking the boxes he’d only packed a few days previously, he’d decided to take in what nightlife a small could offer in comparison to that of Boston. Despite the nearly 30 years his family had been living in the States, his father would always choose to drink in a place that labelled itself a pub. So that seemed as good a place to start as anywhere else.

Inside it was busier than he expected, his mind automatically settling into the Mineral Point small town mentality. That town had been more family orientated though, not the most thrilling place for a teenager to waste his years –unable to get a drink as all the store owners knew he was under 21. His father would bring several crates of beer whenever he visited, muttering darkly that he’d been drinking weekly by 16 back home. Then again, who knew what sort of stuff his Dad had been into as an art student in the early 1970s.

Making his way toward the bar, he perched on the stool nearest to where the barman seemed to be lingering. Ordering a quick bud, he tipped the bottle to his lips and took a deep swig. Humming appreciatively as the suds washed over his taste buds. The next step from here, working out what kind of place he’d jumped feet first into. Shifting on his seat, his elbow knocked the person stood nearby, “Sorry love! Clumsy limbs,” he explained with a grin, British accent sliding over the words.